


Ash

by psalloacappella



Series: Particles [6]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Drabble, F the shinobi state, Gen, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28760196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psalloacappella/pseuds/psalloacappella
Summary: She doesn’t smoke, except when she does.
Relationships: Haruno Sakura & Nara Shikamaru
Series: Particles [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1919686
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Ash

**Author's Note:**

> with FFN's issues lately and twt being what it is, I plan to keep things here as backup even if they're really short. "Archive" no? I'm trying some new brain pathways lately which may result in some rare-r-pairoffs than normal or even GEN so if it's not your jam, not your jam. 
> 
> for a friend

❦

She loses him in a dingy, dank cave to the soft, estinto backdrop of her best friend’s tears and the swooping crescendo of a large man’s howls. 

A pentagonal hole in the heart, the shape of a blurry game tile. That’s the void his absence leaves. 

No one blames her, and that ends up saddling her with an even more onerous weight to bear. The way her teammates tiptoe — her perceived _fragility_. 

A legend, a pillar loses another; she will wish for him — the tactician, the mealy-mouthed, her ongoing shogi partner in a game past the two-month mark — during the dark days of rebuilding their home. 

There’s a pointlessness to it she can’t shake; the fate of state tools, usefulness cut short. It rankles. It screams for meaning it hasn’t been given. 

Too many evenings she sits in a claustrophobic utility closet, where people can’t find her, can’t _need_ her. Only one of her team turned family manages to conceal his lurking presence, lingering like physical worry; the other, too clumsy and sometimes too overcome himself, off flogging his own failure on a dusty training ground. 

Too many night shifts hugging her knees, rubbing the metal of a cigarette case down to a worn and full reflection of her own disenchantment. 

A war won, a purpose lost. 

She doesn’t smoke, except when she does.


End file.
